Spark
by flowerpicture
Summary: You can't deny the inevitable.
1. Chapter 1

**So this isn't the fic I was planning on posting today. And it's not the final chapter of Homecoming either. It's something I wrote today on the spur of the moment because it just bit at me and wouldn't let go. Homecoming is coming this weekend.**

**Confession: I got too scared to post Homecoming or the other fic today. :p Confidence = gone. This fic is to see if I still have anything in me.**

::: :::

"Happy birthday," Doug says to you, giving you a present and a smile, and you're in your American apartment in your American bed with your American husband and all you can think about is the warm beer and cloudy skies and the bright colours of home.

Your smile, when you give it, is broken.

::: :::

Amy moves back to Hollyoaks, into your old flat—Brendan didn't even ask questions, she says, just gave her the keys and something about sorting out rent later and now she's home with the kids and you're in America without any of it.

"How was he?"

It's not the question you should be asking.

::: :::

"I want to go home."

Doug looks up from his newspaper. He's got sunlight spilling over his face, a dainty espresso cup on the shiny-white breakfast bar before him, his hair perfectly styled and his collar folded over just so.

Everything about this place is perfect. It hurts to look.

"You are home."

"No," you say, twisting your fingers together. You don't know why you're so nervous. "I want to go back to Hollyoaks."

He stares at you for the longest moment. You can't read a thing in his expression. "You mean for a visit?" It's obvious from his tone that he doesn't believe that, so you don't answer, and he sighs, closes the newspaper. "Ste…"

But you've got your argument ready. "I can't justify being away from me kids anymore now they've moved back."

He nods like he gets it. You wonder if he ever did. "But we can't just pack up and leave everything here."

"Leave what?"

You've been here months and the only person you know by name is the postman. You exist in this place. Your life is at home.

You make him see it, eventually, days later. And after you book the tickets and give notice to your landlord, you go into the bathroom and you cry.

It's as though you've just learned how to breathe again.

::: :::

It's raining when you land, and it's raining when you arrive in Hollyoaks, and the first thing Amy does when you walk through the door is complain about damp. Then she smiles, all bright with watery eyes, and you hug her and you hug the kids and then you hug Doug, too. Just because.

He goes to bed, never been one to handle jetlag too well, and you sit with Amy and the kids in the living room and catch up and play games and eat sweets.

When Doug gets up and joins you, you blink in momentary disorientation. For a second there, you were back in the past, in the time before marriage.

::: :::

With bills to pay and kids to support and no more deli, you need a job. Tony's got a new restaurant and you're a good chef and there's no hesitation from him, for which you're grateful. You're to start the following Monday.

Doug's not so lucky, and he doesn't take it well.

"It's fine, Doug," you tell him with a cuddle in bed. "We can survive on my wages for a bit."

He's going to distribute his CV all over Chester, he tells you, because he wants to provide—not just for you, but for the kids, and it's a statement that makes warmth bloom in your chest.

You make love to him that night for the first time since you got back home and you pretend you don't feel the twinge of resentment at having to top again, that you don't miss how it used to be, in the time before Doug, when you spread your legs and took it deep and felt so full with it that you couldn't breathe.

It's just sex. It's not everything.

::: :::

It doesn't take you long to get into the swing of things at the restaurant and suddenly it's like old times, and you love it—the rapid pace, the pressure, the smell of fresh ingredients and the sound of Tony coming into the kitchen to complain about everything.

It's not exactly as it was before, though, after all these years—Tony has more respect for you now, and he sees you as an equal, and after a week or so he's letting you run the kitchen without much interference. He even asks you to come up with a signature dish, which you trial on Doug later, although he's too gloomy to truly appreciate it. He's just been turned down after his fourth interview this week.

"You'll find something," you tell him, but there's less conviction in your voice now.

Leah needs new shoes, and you're behind on Lucas' afterschool care fees, and your wages only stretch so far. Amy's trying, picking up a few cleaning jobs a week, but her benefits were cut short when you moved in and there's just not enough money to go around.

Something has to give.

::: :::

Brendan comes into the restaurant with a lunch date, a man you don't recognise. You try to duck into the kitchen before they see you but it's too late.

It's obvious Brendan's surprised by the sight of you—it's written all over his face. You wonder what your expression tells him, if it's obvious you're not ready for this.

He comes over, and for a long moment he just looks at you. Then he points over his shoulder at his companion. "That's just business."

His voice shouldn't have an effect on you, not after all this time. But god, you've missed it. You've missed a lot of things.

You swallow. "I didn't ask." But you're glad he clarified. More pleased than you have any right to be.

Brendan looks you over—not like he's checking you out, but as though he's taking you in. "It's good to see you."

You don't answer. You try for a smile, but you doubt it works.

"Come by the club. When you're finished here."

You don't ask why. You think of Doug at home, and how it's your turn to get the dinner in, and Amy's text earlier about needing to get the electric bill paid by five.

"Okay."

::: :::

The club hasn't changed, but then you didn't expect it to. Some things are constant. Like finding Brendan in his office, sat behind his desk. Like Brendan wearing a shirt that looks as though it's straining to contain him. Like Brendan, lit by the low light of his desk lamp, looking too beautiful for you to comprehend.

Some things will never change.

"Hiya."

"Hey." He indicates the chair opposite and you sit, and you look at him, twisting your hands in your lap and feeling your heart race. This place feels too much like home and comfort and heat that you don't know how you're supposed to deal with it.

"I just…" The usual Brendan Brady bravado is missing. He's nervous. "You've been gone a long time."

_Why am I here? _you think, and you don't mean why has Brendan asked you here, what does he want. You mean why are you _here_, with Brendan, when Doug and your family and everything else is waiting for you.

You're afraid of the answer.

"I know."

He nods, slowly, as if he's putting his thoughts in order. "Are you…back?" His gaze flitters to your mouth as he speaks.

He's seen you working at the restaurant. He knows you're here to stay. But he's looking for confirmation, and you're happy to give it. "Yeah. Needed to be with me kids."

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah." Then he clears his throat, and his tone is lighter when he adds, "If you need extra money, I'm looking for a weekend barman."

It gets your back up, but not for the right reasons. "Who says I need extra money?" He doesn't answer, just stares at you, prompting you to fill the silence. "Anyway, I've already got a job, ain't I?"

He inclines his head. "What time do you close the kitchen on weekends?"

"Dunno," you say with a shrug. "About ten."

"So you can do ten 'til two here."

You almost smile, amused despite yourself. "Doug won't like that."

With a raised eyebrow, Brendan drawls, "I didn't know he was your boss."

"He's not my boss." The curve of Brendan's smirk is distracting, and you narrow your eyes. "He's my husband."

You've still got your Chez Chez t-shirt somewhere. You wonder if it'll fit.

::: :::

Naturally, Doug doesn't take it well, and you don't blame him. After all, Brendan isn't just some random ex. He's not Noah or Rae. He's not even Amy.

Brendan's on another level, and both you and Doug know it.

"You can't actually be serious," is Doug's first response to the news.

"I'm not letting this happen," is his second.

It's your cue to explain why it will definitely happen. But there's the truth and there's the _truth_. You go with the less painful option: "You haven't got a job, Doug. We need the money. Me kids can't survive on air and cuddles."

It hits home, like you knew it would, and the argument spirals out of control and fizzles out and ends with you leaving for your shift at the restaurant, your Chez Chez t-shirt worn under your chef's whites.

::: :::

You don't see Brendan the first night. It's his day off.

You wonder if it's deliberate.

::: :::

The first weekend flies past. It takes you a while to get the hang of how to tend a bar again when you've got a rush on of students, and Brendan only makes his presence known by wandering the floor occasionally before disappearing into his office.

He looks at you sometimes, from across the room. A steady gaze. He's always done it, always observed, always watched your every move. You should be used to it by now, but you're not.

You want to go into his office and talk to him, about anything, just be in his presence. You know you shouldn't. It's not your place to take any notice of Brendan Brady anymore.

But Brendan saved you. Brendan killed for you. Brendan stood in front of a bullet for you. He's never going to be just your boss, or just your ex.

You have the kind of connection with him you will never have with another person, not even your husband. Because Doug has never laid down his life for you; Doug will never understand what it's like to have a man stand before you, ready to die just so you can go on living.

You know Brendan loved you then. But time has passed now.

You want to ask Brendan if he would do it again. You want to ask him if he'd willingly sacrifice himself for you.

You want to ask him if he still loves you.

You don't want to know the answer.

::: :::

"On me," Brendan says after closing the following Friday night, sliding a beer across the bar to you. It's the first words he's said to you in over a week.

You finish putting the glasses away and take the beer. "Ta."

He's sipping his own drink, watching you. Always watching you.

"Why've you been avoiding me?"

"I haven't," he says after obvious hesitation. When you give him a look that says you're not buying it, he sighs, rubs his moustache. "I don't know where the boundaries are anymore."

You frown. "What d'you mean?"

He looks as though he doesn't have the words to answer, but then he does, and it knocks the breath out of you. "Before you left, you were gonna leave your husband for me." Even now, months later, he sounds almost awed by it.

He's not wrong, and there's little point in denying it now. "Yeah." Your voice is soft. You don't look away from the hint of vulnerability in Brendan's eyes. "I was."

Brendan says nothing to that. His jaw's tight, his gaze dark and stormy and fixed on you, and you need to leave now, before either of you says something you shouldn't.

But you don't leave. You stand there, and you look at him, and you blurt out the first thing that comes into your head. "Why did you hit me that day?" It's a question you've wanted to ask so many times, laid awake next to Doug turning it over and over in your mind, searching futilely for the answer. Because it didn't feel right. Not that getting a smack in the mouth from Brendan ever felt _right_, but there was something else to it. It wasn't Brendan. It was Brendan driven by another factor. You're not stupid. You were hurt and upset on the day, both at the rejection and the punch, but you figured it out pretty quickly.

No anger from Brendan, no loss of control, no malice in his eyes. That hit was a calculated move.

It's the hit that sent you to America. Brendan personally made sure you went.

Brendan's eyes cloud over now, and he looks down at the floor, rubs fingertips across his forehead. "Had to make you hate me," he murmurs. "Didn't know how else to do it."

Your stomach lurches. Your theory proven correct. "Why do I need to hate you? I hated you for ages and it never changed anything." Still loved him. Still wanted him. And here you are now, again.

Standing almost in the same spot, as if no time has passed.

Everything washes out of your mind, and you look at him curiously now. It's as if nothing else exists, and you're in a bubble, free to say whatever you like without consequence. "If I got meself in trouble now," you say, slowly, "would you save me?"

He blinks at you. "What kind of question is that?"

"Would you though?"

After a moment, he snorts a laugh and shakes his head, crosses his arms over his chest. A show of defensive body language—defending himself against your questioning, or defending himself against the idea of you ever being in a situation where you would need saving. "You know the answer to that, Steven."

You nod. "You'd save anyone though, wouldn't you? It's what you do."

"Depends who they are."

"Would you still die for me?"

It knocks the wind out of his sails, and his lips part on a soft breath. "Why are you doing this?"

"Last time I saw you, you were rejecting me. Just wondering what changed after you were gonna take that bullet for me." You take a step closer. You don't mean to. "Because I know you loved me then."

He looks at your eyes and your mouth and all over your face. When he speaks, his voice is low and strained. "I told you, I had to say no. I had to make you hate me."

"Do I have to hate you now?"

A few moments pass before he responds. "No," he says softly. "I don't want you to hate me now."

A glimmer of understanding passes between you.

You're married, and you're unavailable, and Brendan would still sacrifice himself for you in a heartbeat.

You're as sure of it as you are your feelings for this man. Feelings you have no choice but to lock away.

You finish your beer and you leave. Brendan watches you go.

::: :::

Weeks pass. The restaurant gets busy; the club gets busier. Your relationship with Brendan is of boss and employee and maybe of something like friends. You learn how to have a conversation with him again, one which doesn't hold the weight of hidden meaning and inappropriate feelings. You learn how to be around him without wanting to run screaming, or get closer.

You start seeing Brendan's face when you make love to Doug. It puts a strain on your intimacy.

Doug gets a job, but it's only for two days a week, and it's not enough for you to quit the club. He tries to convince you anyway, and you almost agree, but then Amy gets the flu and can't work and there's a huge gas bill approaching its due date.

You have no choice. Even Doug sees it.

You like to think you wouldn't make an excuse anyway to continue at the club, even without the necessity of paying bills. But you know yourself too well.

::: :::

Your weekends at the club increase, and then you're working Wednesdays as well, then Thursdays, and between the restaurant and the club and your kids, you don't see much of Doug.

You start feeling guilty, and you take him out for lunch on your day off.

It's strained. You can't understand why. You're pleasant and polite to each other and there are no awkward silences but that's the problem: you're pleasant and polite to each other. Like acquaintances.

You're missing the spark. You don't remember what it feels like to have one with this man. You make it your mission to get it back, or to create one. This is a marriage, and marriages take work. The priorities need reorganising.

You tell Brendan you can't work Wednesdays anymore, and you make it your date night. You and Doug go to the cinema, or to the pub, or have a quiet night in. You always end it with sex.

It becomes a routine.

No one ever found a spark in routine.

::: :::

Amy got over the flu weeks ago and returned to work. With three of you earning, there's no reason for you to have two jobs now.

You don't bring it up.

::: :::

Brendan doesn't come into work one night when he's supposed to. No one seems to know why.

You tell the bar manager you're taking your break, and you go to Brendan's flat.

He answers the door with a red nose and watery eyes and a hacking cough that makes you wince. You've never seen Brendan ill. You've seen him in a bad way, usually due to something violent in his life, but you've never witnessed Brendan Brady deal with the common cold.

You almost laugh at the pitiful expression on his face.

Despite his weak protests, you gain entry to the flat and you tell him to sit and you make soup and tea and dig out some paracetemol.

He eats grudgingly, and he sips his tea, and you sit with him a while watching some old black and white film he's got on the TV.

You don't talk, and suddenly you remember where you're meant to be, and you sit up straight with a jolt. "I was only meant to be gone ten minutes."

Brendan's eyes are shut, his head drooping to the side, his skin pale and his lips parted as his breath rattles through him. You stare at him for too long.

Then you drape a blanket over him, and you almost touch his face, and you switch off the TV and turn off the light and decide there's no point going back to work now, so you go home.

You skipped out on work to look after your boss. It's not as if you're going to get in trouble for it.

::: :::

Brendan's not home when you visit him the following morning before your shift at the restaurant. An hour later, you get a text:

_Thank you_.

When you get to the club that night, you can tell he's embarrassed but he's looking better and he smiles at you, and you smile back, and there's a moment where it's just the two of you behind the bar and you reach for a glass that he's reaching for, and it's the most cliché thing in the world when your hands meet, Brendan's closing over yours. Neither of you snatch your hands back like you're supposed to, like the cliché dictates.

It's the first skin-on-skin contact you've had with him since you returned and you don't want him to let go. But he has to.

His hand leaves you before his gaze does and you almost step into his space. Almost. He walks away before you can do something stupid.

He's always saving you.

::: :::

TBC

(This is part 1 of 2. Part 2 is coming tomorrow. I ran out of time, sorry!)

BTW, I've been posting drabbles on my tumblr, if anyone wants to follow my writing over there.


	2. Chapter 2

You sweep the moment of weakness under the rug, and at some point Brendan learned how to be gracious, because he doesn't bring it up. It's as if it never happened.

You're glad, but you're frustrated. You don't understand how you'll ever get over this connection with Brendan if neither of you talks about it.

Work continues, and life moves on, and Brendan's still your boss. You start staying late every night, after everyone else has gone home, helping Brendan close up the tills, sweeping up while Brendan plays music through the speakers and goes over his paperwork at the bar.

You don't speak to each other much, nothing beyond work conversations, but there's an air of intimacy in these nights, the two of you alone in the universe, tucked away in the shadows, together. He reserves a smile for you as you say goodnight, the same smile every night, a smile that knocks down the walls of boss and employee and speaks to the heart of you, to your history together, to what could've been.

You're shrouded by guilt.

Because there's a man in your life who makes the rest of the world fade away when you look at him, who makes your heart race and your breath hitch and your skin burn with the need to touch.

And that man is not your husband.

You need to get over it. It's vital that you do.

::: :::

You discover that Doug's been to see Brendan, to have some kind of manly discussion about you, as if you're a toy for them to fight over.

You don't talk to Doug for three days.

Brendan doesn't mention anything about it.

::: :::

You hit a bad month with money, even with all three of you working, and Brendan overhears you on the phone with Amy, stressing about not being able to afford Leah's upcoming school trip.

"It's fine," you tell him when he gives you a look of concern, and you think that's the end of it. But later Amy informs you that Brendan's refunded the rent for this month and you catch him outside the club the following morning, angry and tired and embarrassed. "You've got no right doing that," you snap at him, and he doesn't even pretend that he doesn't know what you're talking about.

He pulls you into the alley, and he crowds in close, drops his voice. "I wanted to help."

He's not wearing aftershave. You can smell his shower on him, clean water and soap.

"I didn't ask you to. You're just my boss, right. It's not—it can't get personal." A blush warms your skin.

You're the one guilty of making it personal.

He dips his head to look you straight in the eye and when he speaks, you feel his breath on your lips. "It's always gonna be personal between us, Steven."

You don't know what compels you in that moment, but lean forward an inch or two, close enough to feel the barest ghost of Brendan's moustache against your top lip, and you stay there just long enough to realise Brendan's stopped breathing and the world's gone silent around you. Then you swallow and you step back and you can't think of anything to say, so you leave.

When you glance over your shoulder, Brendan hasn't moved. He looks sad as he watches you go.

::: :::

Doug's getting irritable. If he's not tripping over kids' toys, or being woken in the night by kids' nightmares, he's waking up in the morning to find all the milk's gone on the cereal.

He's done it before, living with you and the kids, but for some reason he's not handling it so well this time. He snaps at everything, and you can't remember the last time the two of you laughed together.

It doesn't help that you live with your ex, and you work with your other ex, but there's nothing you can do about that.

You take him out for lunch at Tony's restaurant—making use of the staff discount—and you sit outside in the weak sunlight and talk to him, talk about anything other than kids and bills and your work.

He's telling you about a difficult customer he encountered last week, one who threatened to tell the boss on him, and you're paying attention and nodding along and making the appropriate sympathetic noises and then Brendan walks past, and you track him, and you meet his eye for a moment.

When you look back at Doug, you realise you missed the end of his story. Doug's face has fallen, his gaze flicking to Brendan and then down to his plate, an air of disappointment and subdued anger radiating from him.

You feel like the worst person in the world.

::: :::

Cheryl invites you over to Ireland for her birthday, plane tickets enclosed. You book the time off work with Tony, and then you realise that if you're invited, then Brendan's definitely invited, and you have no choice but to bring it up with him.

He offers to not go.

But it's his sister, and you can't do that to either of them, so you tell him it's fine. When he asks if you and Doug would like a lift to the airport with him, you decline.

But it means all three of you are in the airport at the same time, and while you and Doug stand at one end of the boarding lounge, Brendan sits on a bench at the opposite side of the room. You roll your eyes.

"This is stupid," you mutter to Doug. "We can't pretend like we don't know him."

"I can."

But you go over anyway, and the three of you make awkward small talk, and you look at Brendan and Doug sitting beside each other and you take in the contrasts. You couldn't find two men more different if you tried.

In the uncomfortable silence that follows, you decide not to look at either of them. It's safer for you.

You feel a heavy gaze burning into your skin and you know if you look up, you won't be able to look away.

::: :::

Doug falls ill on the night you're all supposed to go out for the birthday dinner. It's something he ate on the plane, he reckons, and his stomach is killing him. You choose to stay in with him, snuggled together under a blanket on Cheryl's sofa, and while there's disappointment all 'round, you promise Cheryl you'll have a drink with her when she returns.

Brendan says nothing to you before he leaves, but you hear him mutter his weary displeasure to Cheryl in the hall.

You put on a film on Cheryl's giant TV and you settle in to watch it, occasionally giving Doug's back a rub whenever he groans with the pain. Your eyes are drawn to the pictures on the shelf beside the TV, to the picture of Brendan, and before long Doug stops pretending he hasn't noticed.

"Be honest with me, Ste," he says quietly. The room's draped in darkness, and you daren't look in his eyes. "Do I have a reason to worry?"

"What you on about?" Fronting it out is your best option, even if you hate how you feel like you're being dishonest.

"Don't treat me like an idiot."

"I'm not," you say swiftly. "Everything's fine. I promise." You offer him a smile, and you hug him closer, and when you rub his back now it's with an edge of nervous tension. "I'm here with you, aren't I?"

You wish you knew how to sound more reassuring.

::: :::

Brendan's drunk when they return, and you have your promised drink with Cheryl while Doug sleeps upstairs. Cheryl looks at you and Brendan sat beside each other and sighs.

You frown at her. "What?"

"Nothing." But there's clearly something, and a moment later she waves a hand to indicate the two of you. "It's just a shame, that this never—"

"Chez," says Brendan warningly, and she shuts up.

You exchange a look with Brendan, and you search his eyes.

You want to know if he agrees with her.

::: :::

The long hours at the restaurant and club are taking their toll on you, and you're exhausted. You stop going out with Doug, stop making the effort to cook lavish, romantic meals at home. You don't have the energy anymore, and you've come to view your Wednesday nights as your night of chilling out.

You could come home earlier from the club; you don't have to stay late every night.

Brendan's started giving you a musical education. He'll put on an album for you to sweep the floor to and he'll talk about it a little, where he first heard the music, what his favourite songs are. You fill your iPod with Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan and Neil Young and Tom Waits and you look them up online and ask Brendan what else there is, where it all came from. One night you don't sweep and Brendan doesn't do his paperwork and you sit together on the floor of his office with Brendan's laptop and YouTube and the live shows, the black and white clips and the raw vocals.

Your interest brightens him, and he talks more than you've ever heard him talk before, and he's excited when he clicks over to the next video, and the next, watching you pay attention and take it in and ask for more. He breaks out the whiskey and you drink to Janis Joplin and Clapton and Sinatra, get drunk enough to lean on his shoulder and sing along to the bits you know. His amused smile is gentle and warm and this is different, this is new.

This is what a relationship with Brendan could be like.

You don't make it home until dawn that night. Doug's fast asleep in bed, but Amy's up. She gives you a knowing look. "You need to be careful," she says, and you go to bed with your stomach twisted in knots.

::: :::

You haven't slept with Doug in over a week. Neither of you has even suggested it.

There's a fracture in your marriage. You're not blind to it. Every day the space between you gets wider; every moment you spend with someone other than him chips away at your connection.

You don't know what to do, and you feel hopeless with it.

Conflict churns in your gut. On the one side you have your husband, and on the other you have the club and Brendan, and it should be easy, seeing where the scales are meant to tip. But it's not. Everything's hazy, the edges blurred, and the difference between what you _should_ do and what you _want_ to do is becoming more difficult to distinguish.

You're a bastard.

You put a stop to the music, and you go home when you're supposed to, even if the disappointment in Brendan's eyes feels like a blade through the heart. All your focus goes into making a success of your job at the restaurant, and when you're home you treat Doug like a king. Your earlier nights give you more energy and you start cooking for him again, and watching movies, and you go out together to the park with the kids.

It feels hollow, so you fill that hollow space with _more_, desperate to make it go away. You become insatiable in the bedroom, and you kiss Doug whenever he's close enough, and you speak loudly and cheerfully and you ask him to tell you everything all the time, all the details of his day, what he's been up to at work.

When he eventually tells you to lay off, his eyes are dead. You hadn't noticed before.

::: :::

You crash and burn, and you let the morose take over. If this is your life now—the constant pressure to make it _work_—then you don't know how you're supposed to wake up each day and face it. You know marriages are meant to take effort, that there's no such thing as plain sailing in a lifetime together, but it feels like you're constantly pushing against the tide and you only have so much to give.

Brendan finds you on the balcony late one night and he joins you, stands silently beside you, while you stare up at the stars and contemplate what you're going to do next.

There has to be a moment when you must accept the inevitable, but you don't think you're ready for it. There's a reason you married him. Surely that can't have all washed away so quickly?

A flash of light in the sky has you breaking the silence. "Was that a shooting star?"

Brendan startles slightly, apparently unprepared for your voice. You wonder what he's been thinking about, standing beside you for the past minute or so.

"I doubt it."

If it was, you might have wished for an answer, or some inspiration as to what you're meant to do.

You marry the man you want to spend the rest of your life with. That's the rule.

"What would you wish for?"

Brendan smiles, one of his smiles where the corners of his mouth turn down instead of up. You've come to think of it as his private smile. He doesn't give it to many people. "I don't believe in any of that."

"No, come on." The subject has caught you, a welcome distraction, frivolity amongst the gloom. You turn to Brendan with a grin. "What would you wish for?"

He's not smiling anymore. He's looking at you, moonlight reflected in his eyes, and the expression on his face suggests the thoughts in his head are not ones you should hear.

You wait with your breath held.

"That you'd ask me again."

Your heart stutters up into your throat. Suddenly, you can't look away.

You know what he's talking about; there's no need for pretence. Once upon a time, you asked Brendan to tell you to stay with him, to not go to America with your husband. He said no then, with a violent response intended to send you packing.

Now he wants you to ask him again.

Your whole body aches with it.

"And if I did?"

He lifts a hand, brushes hair away from your temple. Your eyelids flutter with the touch.

"I wouldn't make the same mistake twice," he says. Then he laughs, a mirthless laugh that slices pain through your chest, and he pulls his hand back. "I'm going to waste my life waiting for that second chance."

Your swallow is dry and painful, your voice tight and cracked when you speak. "You might meet someone."

He smiles again, but his eyes are full of sadness. "There'll never be anyone else. Let's not pretend we both don't already know that."

You feel like your chest is going to split down the middle and spill your heart out in the space between you. "You can't put that on my shoulders."

He touches you again, a trace of fingertips along your jawline. "All I need is for you to be happy," he says softly. "If you are, then I'll have no regrets." He cups your cheek then, and then the other, holds your face in his hands and speaks with intent. "Just be happy, Steven. Whatever it takes. Don't waste a minute worrying about me."

Then with a final brush of his thumb across your bottom lip, he releases you and walks away, opens the door to head back inside.

"Do you still love me?"

It brings him to a stop, his back stiff. You're painfully breathless with anticipation.

When he turns, you can see it all in his eyes, a fiery storm of it that makes you want to cry. "You don't need me to answer that." And he's right, you don't. The answer is startlingly clear.

"Go home, Steven," he says. "To your husband."

Then he closes the door on you, making a final decision for you both.

::: :::

TBC.

Yeah, there's a part 3. SORRY!


	3. Chapter 3

Amy takes the kids to visit her dad for a few days, and you're left home alone with Doug. There's tension at first, and you tiptoe around each other, but then you slip over in the shower and he laughs, and he burns dinner and you laugh, and the tension breaks.

It's not exactly how it used to be, back in those early days, but it feels hopeful.

You spend a lot of time together in the days without the kids, learning how to enjoy each other's company again, and by the time Thursday comes around you call in sick at the club so you can have one more night alone with Doug. You figure you owe him that much.

It's good, and you start to remember why you're here, with this man, choosing to share your life with him.

You don't tell him about the cracks in your heart, caused by softly spoken words from a man stood under the starlight with you less than a week ago.

::: :::

You and Doug can't exist in the private little bubble forever and come the weekend, it's business as usual. Amy and the kids return and you go back to the restaurant and for a while it's like everything's different, clearer. The edges are sharper now.

But then you go for your shift at the club, and you see Brendan.

You want to thank him for doing the right thing, for steering you in the right direction, but you don't.

You only need to look at him for the words to freeze in your throat.

::: :::

"Me and Doug are gonna make a proper go of it," you tell him. You've been building up to this for the past hour, sweeping the floor and cleaning tables while he worked at the bar, soft music playing over the system.

He looks up from his paperwork, his expression unreadable.

"And I'm sorry if that means—"

"It's fine."

But you can see it's not fine, can see the turmoil in his eyes, and you can hear it in the crack of his voice.

You don't know if you're telling the truth, or if you're testing him.

How different things could've been, if only he'd given in on that day.

You put your broom to the side and lean forward against the bar, opposite him, propping yourself up on your elbows. It's just the two of you here, and it's late, and it's during these moments that you're allowed to say whatever you want. It's safe here.

"Why did I have to hate you?"

You never asked. You asked about the punch, but you never asked why. It didn't seem as important back then as it does now.

He searches your face, and you can detect the panic there, and for a second or two you think he's not going to answer. But then he sighs and grits his teeth for a moment and then he speaks.

"You nearly died. After your accident." He shifts his weight, looks down at the bar between you. "I was gonna lose you." There's a hitch in his tone that makes your heart ache for him.

You can't imagine, if it'd been the other way around.

He tells you about his deal with god, and it sounds ludicrous to you, but you get it.

In his own twisted way, he thought he was saving you.

Again. You're starting to lose count.

There's silence when he's finished, and his breath is stuttered, and his hands are balled up in fists on the bar top, white-knuckled.

Everything within you is screaming for you to crawl over this bar and take him in your arms and hold him close. But you can't do that. You don't trust yourself.

So you take his hand in yours and you prise open his fist so you can cradle just a small part of this man; and you bring his hand to your mouth and you lay a soft kiss on his knuckles, your eyes closing as you press your lips against his skin. You can feel the sting of tears in the corners, threatening to spill.

With your eyes squeezed shut and your lips lingering on his skin, you whisper, "What if I'm not happy?"

You hear the sharp breath that sounds almost like the makings of a sob and you look up. His eyes are glistening, and he pulls his hand from your hold to cup the side of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips.

"You're happier than you would be," he says, and he smiles weakly. "I'm no good for you."

You lean into his hand, nuzzle into it almost. "I'm alive because of you."

His face reads like devastation concealed. He breaks away from you, your skin going cold without his touch.

"Ten minutes ago you were telling me you're gonna make a go of your marriage. You made your vows, Steven."

Your head starts to clear at his words and you swallow, stand up straight.

"There must be something there worth saving," he adds before he starts gathering his files together, suddenly all businesslike, as if the past few minutes never happened. Then he looks up at you in the instant before he walks away, and he says, "You're not gonna make me responsible for breaking the best thing that ever happened to you."

You could almost laugh with the absurdity, but if you do, you might choke on a sob.

::: :::

Doug's been promoted to full-time at work, small payrise included, and you're pleased for him, and for you both. You go out to celebrate, just a few pints at the pub, and you go home and have drunken sex and you giggle well into the night.

You're happy, so happy with everything, but there's also a small part of you that knows it means you'll see even less of him now, and you wait for your happiness to cloud over with disappointment for it.

It never does.

::: :::

It's your day off from the restaurant and Brendan takes advantage of it. He's got a meeting with the bank, he says via text, and he needs you to come in for the afternoon shift to keep an eye on everything.

He's got a bar manager for that, but you don't bring it up.

A delivery arrives and you sign for it and you put it all away, and then you go into the office to put the invoice on Brendan's desk. His top drawer is open an inch, and your curiosity gets the better of you.

There's nothing in there but old pens and various leftover leaflets for past theme nights. But lying on top of it all is a piece of paper that causes your heart to stop dead for an instant before racing to pound against your ribs.

It's the invitation for your wedding.

It's folded over to show just your face in the picture, and the edges of the paper are well-worn and frayed, as if touched and held and scrunched a few times in the months since the event.

You look happy in this picture, getting ready to marry the man of your dreams.

You're caught red-handed by Brendan, and he sees instantly what you're looking at, but he doesn't speak. He just stands there watching you put the invitation back in the drawer, your skin heating under the attention.

You mutter an apology and you stammer something about the invoice and you go to leave, but he stops you with a hand on your arm, his touch a searing brand.

"I gave you my cross," he says quietly. "Put it in your hand when you were in hospital. Thought it might help keep you safe."

You shake your head, can't remember anything about a cross. "I don't—sorry. I'll see if I can find it, give it back."

His hand loosens on your arm, enough for him to drag his palm up to your shoulder, the side of your neck. "I don't want it back. I just need to know that you still have it."

You don't, but you're going to find it.

::: :::

Doug finds you tearing the bedroom apart, searching every space for the cross. He stops you with anger, a demand to know what the hell you're doing, and you give it to him straight.

You want the cross, you tell him. The one he hid from you.

Because you know he did. He must have. The staff at the hospital wouldn't have removed it from your possessions, and Cheryl wouldn't have taken it.

That leaves Doug, but you're not concerned about why he did it. You just want it back.

It's the only piece of Brendan you have.

He doesn't explode in rage, once he figures out what you're doing. He sits on the edge of the bed, and he looks at the floor, and he tells you he got rid of it.

You want to kill him, but the complete lack of emotion in his tone is scaring you.

"I don't know how much longer I'm supposed to wait," he tells you, and you ask him what he's waiting for, although you're already afraid of the answer.

His eyes are cold when he looks up at you. "For you to remember who you married."

::: :::

You thought things were getting better; you thought you were somehow starting to make Doug happy.

In the days that follow, you realise just how much he's aware of what's happening on the edges of his marriage. You realise how affected he is by the turmoil raging within you.

You realise you're destroying him, and it breaks your heart.

"We can't go on like this," you tell him. You wonder if he can tell you've been crying.

He nods. "Sunday. We'll get away from all this"—he indicates the mess of family life littered all over the living room—"and we'll talk. See if we can figure this out."

It's not a solution, but it's a plan to find one, and you take it.

::: :::

Brendan hasn't been in to the club for two days, and your concern is causing too much of a distraction at work. You tell the bar manager you're going to see what's going on, and you get nothing but relief and gratitude in return. A club can't run without its boss.

It's dark out when you cross the street to Brendan's flat, and you knock on his door. There's no answer, but you hear the clink of a bottle from inside.

You knock again, and you wait, and then you call, "I know you're in there. I'm not leaving until you open this door."

You'll wait all night if you have to.

The door eventually opens, and you're presented with an unkempt, inebriated Brendan, whose face is full of anger at the sight of you.

It's almost enough to send you reeling.

"Get the fuck out of here," he growls, and then he attempts to slam the door in your face.

You catch your foot in it at the last minute, wincing as the heavy wood makes contact, and you push your way in and past him.

You know he wouldn't hurt you. Not anymore.

The place reeks of whiskey and misery. He's not got any lights on, but you can still make out all the empty bottles, the half-eaten takeaway rotting on the coffee table.

"What the—Brendan—"

You round on him, find him leaning back against the front door. His eyes are darker than this room.

"What's happened?"

This can't be because—there's no way he's _this_ affected by what's been going on between you. You're not arrogant enough to presume.

Something's happened, something big.

He laughs, the most painful laugh you've ever heard, and he waves an arm at random. "Everything's happened, Steven," he says. "Everything."

It takes you twenty minutes of talking him around for him to tell you what's going on.

His dad died.

Part of you doesn't understand his reaction. He hated his dad. But the other part of you knows that if you heard your mum had died, it would hit you hard. Your parents are your parents.

You've cleaned the place up a little, and you've switched on a light, and now you're sat beside him on the couch, joining him for a drink.

"When's the funeral?"

"This weekend," he mutters. His eyes have glazed over as he stares out at nothing. "'m not going."

"Brendan, it's your dad," you tell him softly. "You have to go."

He laughs again. It sounds worse than before. "I'm not as strong as you think I am, Steven."

You put your hand on his thigh, give it a gentle squeeze. "You'll have Cheryl there. You can help each other through it."

He looks at you then, turns his head and stares at you close and with such intensity that it makes your breath catch. His tone, when he speaks, is dark. "She doesn't know. No one does."

For a moment, you're confused, but then it all rushes into your head at once and your heart splinters in empathy. "You mean the beatings and that? Don't matter, Bren, she can still—"

"No." He looks away, down into his glass. "Not that."

You frown. "What then? What doesn't she know about?"

He doesn't answer, looks as though he's getting lost in himself, in his own head.

"Brendan," you say, tugging on his thigh. You don't know why, but dread is starting to rise in you, and it becomes increasingly vital that Brendan speaks to you now. "What happened?"

"You wouldn't believe me," he whispers. He sounds shockingly broken.

He sounds almost childlike. And it terrifies you.

"I will," you implore. "Brendan. I promise you I will."

He closes his eyes just as a tear slips free and you can't believe you're seeing this, can't believe this is your Brendan, your strong Brendan, the Brendan's who's had it in him to take another man's life for you.

This Brendan is a shadow. A broken, desolate shadow.

You have no idea what to do, other than listen. And you want to listen. You want to take some of this burden from him, whatever it is. You want to be the strong one.

It takes another hour of drinking and your gentle coaxing for him to start talking.

When he does, you wish that he didn't.

::: :::

TBC

Ummmmm there's a part 4. Ooops.


	4. Chapter 4

You put him to bed as the sun begins to rise. He's so drunk and emotionally wrung-out that he can barely put one foot in front of the other, so you half carry him to the bed and tuck him in, smooth his hair back, stand in the doorway and watch him sleep for a few minutes. Then you go to the kitchen to get a drink, desperately need another drink, but your hands are shaking too much to hold the bottle.

You collapse forward over the counter, face buried in your arms, and you cry silently.

He was just a little boy.

Everything makes so much more sense now, in the worst possible way, and it sickens you down to your very core.

::: :::

Amy and Doug and the kids will be wondering where you are. The sun's up and your family will have risen with it. You send a text to Amy telling her not to worry and you switch off your phone. She'll pass the message on to Doug.

You need to be here when Brendan wakes. You don't want him to think you've abandoned him.

You sit on the couch, and you're woken some unknown time later by the feeling of not being alone anymore. Brendan's sitting on the edge of the coffee table, watching you, propped forward with his elbows on his knees.

He looks better than he did last night—he's had a shower, put on clean clothes, tidied his hair. After a moment or two of looking at each other, he breaks the gaze and looks down at the floor. There's a faint red hue to his cheeks.

He's embarrassed, and you know it's not because he got blindly drunk.

"It's okay," you murmur, to no response. "Look at me, Brendan."

He does, slowly, in that way of his where his eyes dart to your face and away again repeatedly, like he's fighting his instincts.

You sit forward on the couch, close to him, and you repeat, "It's okay."

He gives you a fleeting, tired smile. "There's coffee in the kitchen."

It's gone lunchtime and you have a moment of panic where you remember the restaurant, before realising you're not due in until five. You're staunchly refusing to think about Doug.

Your mouth tastes like hell and your eyes are itching with your hangover but you follow Brendan into the kitchen anyway; then you take the cup he offers you and you take his cup as well and you place them both on the counter, and you pull him into a hug.

He's resistant at first, stiff and unmoving, put you persist and he gives in and you wrap him tight in your arms and lay your head on his shoulder. After a moment, his arms come around to hold you close.

You don't know what this hug is about. You know he's not a man who wishes for pity, but there's a little boy buried beneath the hard-man exterior who once upon a time was in desperate need of care and comfort and maybe that's who you're hugging now. That's who you're reaching out to. A little boy, alone and scared and hurt, who just needed someone to save him.

And you're asking him to hug you back because you need it, because you're devastated, because the most important man in the world to you has been holding himself together by the thinnest of threads and you had no idea.

But you know now, and he's not alone anymore.

::: :::

You want to go to the funeral with him. You think of Doug, of your date to talk things through this weekend, and you ask Brendan if you can go with him.

He turns you down.

"I need you here," he tells you. "I need to know I've got someone I can trust running the club for me."

He gives you the keys and the safe code and tells you no again when you beg him, please, to let you go with him. You want to support him.

He doesn't give in, and you're certain it's because he doesn't want to bring you into that world, expose you to that other side of him. Because he's always looking out for you, even when he's the one in need of protection.

You have no choice but to accept it, and you go home to face the music.

::: :::

The flat's empty when you get there. Doug and Amy are at work and the kids are at school and you have the place to yourself to shower and sleep for a while.

You call Doug, but his phone is switched off.

Tony's not happy about you taking a few days off to run the club, but there's not much anyone can say when a parent's funeral is involved so he lets you go with his teeth gritted and a promise that you'll be back as scheduled on Monday.

Running the club is easy. No one questions you being in charge in Brendan's absence.

You spend the whole time checking your phone. When it finally beeps, it's Doug.

You're disappointed.

::: :::

You sit him down and you tell him straight up, you tell him Brendan's dad died and you had to be there for him. You don't sugarcoat it.

He stares at you for a long time, and then he says, his tone flat, "You didn't even call me." Then he leaves, quietly, without another word. It's like he's given up.

Amy's got enough rage inside her for the three of you. "How could you treat him like this?" she demands. And, "I can't believe you're putting _that man_ over your own husband."

You go to work, and you use the office phone to call Brendan, and you talk about the club and Cheryl and the weather in Ireland. Brendan doesn't say much, but he listens, and he prompts you to keep talking whenever you go quiet.

"I'm probably boring you stupid," you say to him, "going on like this."

"No." He sighs, heavy, and his voice gets deeper in your ear, like he's pulling you close. "No, I like it. I need it."

So you talk, and you talk, and you talk until he's called away by some relative or other needing his help with last-minute funeral arrangements. You whisper, "Good luck," and "Call me if you need me," and when he says goodbye to you, it sounds like gratitude and hope.

::: :::

Doug rolls over in the bed after you've climbed in, faces you in the darkness. You thought he was asleep. You were counting on it.

"Why are you back so late?" he murmurs.

You explain about the club, how you're running it now, and it means staying later for a few days, until Brendan gets back.

His hand finds yours under the covers and he holds it, brings it to his chest in a squeezing grip.

It feels as if he's clinging to a lifeline.

"Tell me honestly," he says, and then he pauses, and the empty space before his next words feels like the worst kind of tension. You hold your breath.

"Do you still have feelings for him?" His voice hitches in the middle.

You try to pick apart your thoughts, find something to say that won't hurt him, but you can't think of anything so you settle on something close to the truth. "He's always gonna be important to me, Doug."

It's such a laughable understatement that you don't know how you can still look him in the eye.

He smiles, pulls your hand closer so your skin is resting against his fast-beating heart. "That's not what I asked."

You swallow, and your words stick in your throat on the first try at a response. "I don't know what you want me to tell you."

With his spare hand, he reaches out and caresses your cheek. "The truth," he says. "You could tell me the truth."

But you don't even know the truth yourself. You feel washed out with confusion. On the one hand, you have your husband, and you didn't make those vows lightly. And he doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve to be so low on your list of priorities.

On the other hand, you can't look at Brendan without feeling it. Feeling more than before. Feeling everything.

"It's late," you say now. "Can we talk about this on Sunday like we agreed?"

It's a copout, and you both know it. Doug sighs and releases your hand and turns his back to you.

You want to put your arms around him, but you don't know if you have the right to anymore.

::: :::

It's busy all day on Saturday. Brendan neglected to remind you of the promotion he arranged, and the club is heaving.

But you find time to lock yourself in the office and call Brendan.

The funeral went okay, he says, in a voice that sounds scratched raw with emotion. Your heart aches for him. What you wouldn't give to be there now, with him, holding him.

He's on a flight back in the morning and you tell him you're looking forward to seeing him. He doesn't say anything to that, but you hope it gives him some kind of pleasure, the thought of seeing you again.

The idea of seeing him certainly makes your heart race enough.

"Hope you're looking after that club of mine," he teases when the conversation turns more light-hearted.

You laugh. "'Course I am, you idiot. You can trust me, you know."

"I know," he says, and it sounds like he's talking about more than the club.

::: :::

On Sunday, you find Doug packing. It knocks the breath out of you.

"We're meant to be going out today," you tell him, an edge of panic in your voice. "Sorting things out."

His smile is watery and unsteady and he doesn't speak. He keeps packing his things, packing up his life, and you stand there and watch him and say things like _Please_ and _Let's just talk about this_ but it has no effect.

Before he leaves, he touches your face and he says, "We need some space to figure out what we both want." Then he kisses you, ever so gently, and adds, "It's not the end."

But as you watch him leave, you know.

You know you've just kissed your husband for the last time.

::: :::

You drink a lot. Go to the pub and drown your sorrows, away from Amy's look of disappointment and the kids' overzealous need for attention.

You drink to numb the pain, because it does hurt, more than you thought it would. He's your husband, and you love him, and you feel like there's a chip missing from your heart now, a piece of you he's taken with him.

But you didn't stop him. You didn't run after him and beg him to come back and apologise for how terribly you've been treating him since you returned to Hollyoaks.

And you know if he was what he was supposed to be, if he was the love of your life and your future and your everything, then nothing in this world would have stopped you from bringing him back home.

But you didn't do any of that, so you drink.

::: :::

After a nap and a shower and a whole pot of coffee, you go to the club. You need to give Brendan the keys back, give him the rundown of the club's performance while he's been away.

And you need to see him.

He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes and a scruff of stubble on his face that makes your stomach jolt with appreciation. But he looks happy to see you, hesitant as he approaches you until you open your arms and invite him in for a hug.

He clings on, and it feels like a release for him, tension washing away under your hands.

You smile when you break apart, but your mask slips, because a frown develops between his eyebrows and he asks, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you say swiftly. You lay the keys on the bar and start babbling away about takings and deliveries and suppliers.

He stops you with a hand on your shoulder, head bowed to look you directly in the eye.

"Steven."

You deflate, shoulders slumping, and there's a stupid lump in your throat that's threatening to choke you.

"Me and Doug broke up. He moved out this morning."

His face says everything you don't want it to—sorrow and sympathy and something that looks like the barest hint of guilty pleasure.

"I'm sorry," he says, and you nod and you swallow past that lump and when his hand moves from your shoulder to your cheek, you consider it. For half an instant, with your head flooded with confusion and your heart racing for reasons you can't yet deal with, you consider leaning forward and kissing him. His shining, intent eyes on you suggest he'd let you.

Your husband's not even been gone eight hours.

You push Brendan's hand away, and you leave, refusing to turn back when he calls your name in a broken, desperate tone that tears you apart.

::: :::

You can't do it to another man. You can't promise another man your future and then snatch it away. You can't pull another man into your world without knowing it's all for the right reasons.

You can't keep screwing people over while you continue to live in a mess of confusion and uncertainty. You've bounced from relationship to relationship without taking time out to figure out who you are, and what you want.

And you can't be around Brendan without your thoughts overriding with distraction.

You beg Tony for a payrise, and you quit your job at the club.

TBC

One more part! I think…


	5. Chapter 5

Amy comes around eventually. She's furious with you for days, doesn't understand how you can mess up a marriage so quickly, how you can drive Doug away when the kids were getting used to him being around.

But she thaws, and she listens when you explain about how it wasn't working. You don't tell her about the Brendan factor. You don't want to push your luck.

You haven't seen Brendan for two weeks. He's called, once or twice, but you haven't answered.

You never knew you could miss someone so much.

::: :::

Leah's got a cough, been up all night with it, so you're making an early morning trip to the shop for some cough syrup. You walk in, still half asleep, and almost crash into the one person you're not supposed to be seeing yet.

"Brendan," you say in surprise. Your brain can't quite catch up, and all you can think about is how good he looks flushed and sweaty and dressed down. He's obviously just been for a run, and he's holding a bottle of Lucozade, and he looks completely blindsided by the sight of you.

"Steven," he eventually grunts after staring at you too long, then he brushes past you and vanishes.

In your bafflement at the abruptness of his exit, you blink at the space he was just occupying and it takes you a moment to realise Doug's there by the bread, looking across at you in a way that suggests he's trying to be stealthy about it.

You're flooded with immediate guilt, because you can see his thoughts wash through his eyes, can see what the sight of you and Brendan does to him. You want to approach him, reassure him. You want to tell him you were never going to betray him.

But it's a lie, because you did. You know you did. Maybe not physically, but enough.

::: :::

Brendan stays on your mind for the rest of the week. You hadn't been prepared to see him.

But you did see him, and you want to see him again.

You're starting to forget why you shouldn't.

::: :::

You go clubbing one night, alone, like in the old days after you first came out, in the weeks between the good times with Brendan.

There's a guy there, big and built, looks like he'd know how to handle you the way you like it. He's been cruising you half the night, watching you, eyes intense and full of promise.

You consider it. For so long, you consider it, the anticipation of it, of letting go just this once. Because really, what's a one-night stand? You're a free agent now. You can fuck whoever you want.

When he eventually offers you a smile of invitation, you smile back, and you almost approach him. Almost.

But then a face flashes into your mind, and it gives you pause. Later, when the guy finds you in the bathroom, you tell him you're already taken. You don't know why you say it, feel a little ridiculous for it, because it's not even close to the truth. But it feels like honesty.

You go home alone.

::: :::

There's been a critic in the restaurant at some point, and you knew nothing about it. But it lands you a five-star review in the local paper and Tony wants to go for a drink to celebrate. It's a quiet one at The Dog, not many people about, and Darren takes advantage by joining you.

You feel a bit left out, and you sit back and sip your pint and smile occasionally at the memories they're sharing. Then Brendan walks in, and you forget where you are for an instant, and how you're supposed to stay away.

He stops just inside the doorway and looks at you, stares for a moment, before turning around and walking back out.

You're up and on your feet without taking a second to consider it, and you catch him outside, put your hand on his shoulder to turn him.

"Why d'you keep walking away from me?" You're out of breath from the rush to follow him and it makes your words sound like a plea.

"I don't—uh." He shifts his feet, scratches his jaw. He can't meet your eye for more than a glance at a time. "I thought you wanted space."

"Yeah," you say awkwardly. "I do."

You're looking at him, and you're confused. You're always confused around this man. But now it's not for the same reasons, and the realisation is rushing into your head with startling clarity. This space from him has cleared the haze.

You're not confused because you want him while you're married to another man.

You're not confused because you want him when he's given you so much pain.

You're confused because you're standing here in front of him, and you want him, and you're pretty sure he wants you, and there's nothing stood in your way anymore. Yet you're not together.

Just once, just for one day, you wish your life could be simple.

"Right," he says, and he sounds bitter now, just a hint of it. "Then don't let me interrupt."

He turns to leave again and you grab him—"Wait!"—both hands now, turn him back to face you and you don't quite let go, clinging to his jacket because he might go again if you release him and you don't want that.

His expression showcases the confusion you feel.

"I mean I did," you say, quietly, searching his eyes for the moment, that moment when it clicks into place and you can breathe with relief. "I don't anymore." Your heart trips over itself as the words leave you.

It takes a second or two, but then it happens—his eyes widening slightly, brightening, as understanding floods him. The quietest of breaths punches out of him, sharp and full of disbelief.

Then he's just staring at you, and you feel like your chest is swelling with anticipation. You tighten your grip on his jacket, pulling on him a little, and you murmur, "Say something then."

He opens his mouth but there's no words and you wait, and you wait, and just as it looks as though he's about to say something, you're both interrupted.

"Ste," says Tony from behind you. "Got another pint here for you. Coming back in?"

Just like that, Brendan shuts down again, and you know you're not going to get anything from him now. He walks away before you can try.

::: :::

You can't help but feel rejected again. Two attempted phone calls—that's all you've had from him in the weeks since you left that note on the desk, telling him you'd quit your job at his club, that you needed some space.

Two phone calls, three seconds in the Minute Mart, and a stilted conversation outside the pub where he had the opportunity to say something, anything, to give you an indication that nothing's changed. That he still feels something for you.

You don't want to think that you ended your marriage for him, but you're not naïve or oblivious.

But what you are now is alone, when deep down you thought—even through all your conviction of wanting space to clear your head—that he'd grab the opportunity to take what he wants.

What you thought he wanted.

::: :::

You tell Amy about it. You don't mean to, but you share a bottle of wine one night after the kids go to bed and it's enough to loosen your tongue.

Predictably, she's furious about it, starts reeling off lists as to why _that man_ is bad news, an awful human being, a sick man, bad, bad, bad.

But she doesn't understand. She's never had anyone love her like Brendan loved you. She doesn't know what it feels like to be so consumed with another person.

It's obsession, you think. It doesn't scare you, even when you're certain it should.

In your tipsy haze, you go to the club to find him. You have no idea what you want to say, but you know you want to see him.

He's not there, and he's not at home.

You wonder if he saw you coming.

::: :::

You're out of food and the kids need their dinner so you tell Amy you'll be back in five minutes and you pop to the shop. You've only got a bit of change in your pocket but it'll have to do—the payrise from the restaurant isn't enough to cover the loss of earnings from the club and Doug's job, and it's starting to show.

You get stuck chatting to Cindy about the gossip she's heard—something to do with Myra McQueen and the police—and by the time you make it home again, Amy looks frazzled.

"Where've you been?" she demands, her eyes alight with irritation, and it takes you aback. It's not like you were gone all day.

She explains the problem while you're simultaneously trying to open a tin of beans and find the eggs you saw in the back of the fridge earlier. "Our _landlord_ popped 'round while you were gone. Wanted to know if we had any problems in the flat."

You turn, slowly, the beans in your hand forgotten.

"Really he just wanted to talk about you," she continues, huffily, folded her arms across her chest. "Trying to be subtle about it."

You go to speak, but words fail you. Fortunately, she's not finished.

"If you and Doug are really over. For good."

Your heart pounds in your throat, and you have to put the beans down before you drop them. You find your voice this time, but it's strained. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth," she says, eyes narrowed. Then she sighs, uncrosses her arms and pushes her hair off her face. Her tone softens when she adds, "That as long as he's around, you're never gonna have eyes for anyone else."

Your heart plummets, sending your pulse thundering through your veins while your head buzzes with panic.

"That's gonna drive him away!" you exclaim, words sounding strangled. "Him and his obsession with doing what's best for me, thinking he needs to get out of my life now so I can—"

"He's still here," she says flatly.

Your stomach lurches violently.

"Wanted to wait for you to get back. He's in your room taking a phone call. You were only meant to be gone _five minutes_—"

Footsteps alert you to his presence, and you don't even have a moment to compose yourself before he's there, in your kitchen, looking at you.

He says your name in greeting, and you mumble something about not expecting to find him here, and it's all so awkward and weird and you just want to know what's going on, what this all means.

"Can we talk?" he murmurs, and you take him outside, ignoring Amy's warning glare.

It's getting dark, the air holding a chill, and you stand with your arms folded in the glow of the kitchen light spilling through the window.

When it doesn't look as though Brendan's actually going to say anything, you sigh. "Look, what Amy said—"

"I want you to come back to work."

It comes out all as one word, as though it costs him something to say it. As if standing here and talking to you is hard for him.

You hope it is, for the same reasons it's hard for you.

"The club," he adds when you fail to respond. "I want you to come back. I need a good barman, Steven, especially on the weekends."

Disappointment rises in your chest, and when you speak, your tone is bitter.

"Right."

He raises an eyebrow. "That a yes?"

"I'll think about it, all right?"

Suddenly, you just want to get away from him.

He's not here for you. He's here for staff. The most impersonal visit, when you thought—you actually thought—

"If you don't mind, Brendan, I have to go make tea for me family."

You push past him, your face heating with embarrassment. You can only hope that he didn't pick up on it—that when you led him out here and looked at him, you were waiting for something. Anything. A step forward. An indication. Some kind of sign that he meant it, all those things he said when you were still with Doug. That he still means them.

Maybe that's the problem. You're available now, and maybe it scares him. Enough for him to back away from any feelings he might still carry for you.

"Steven."

You stop inside the doorway, and he waits for you to turn back to him before continuing.

He steps closer, his face cut in shadow, speaks in a quiet, intimate voice that washes over your skin like a caress. "You wanted space. So I gave you space."

You swallow past a dry throat and you watch him track it, his eyes on your throat, your mouth. "Yeah, then I told you I didn't need it anymore."

He smiles then, his private smile, the one he gives only to you. "And now I'm asking you to come and work with me again." He lifts a hand, ghosts fingertips across the skin of your jaw. You barely feel the touch, but your skin burns and tingles with it anyway. "I'm trying not to fuck this up," he murmurs, and it's such a shocking moment of raw honesty that it leaves you unable to say anything else.

He takes a step back, clears his throat. "I'll see you Friday then." Then with a final glance at you, a heavy glance full of everything he isn't saying, everything you feared he didn't feel anymore, he walks away.

You go inside, and you put your Chez Chez t-shirt in the wash.

After all, you want to look good on your first day back.

::: :::

TBC

Uh…


	6. Chapter 6

Friday comes quicker than you expect, and before you know it you're saying goodnight to Tony and heading across to the club and walking into the office to hang up your jacket.

Brendan's sat behind the desk and he looks across at you as you enter, watches you remove your jacket with a smile in his eyes.

"What?" you say, almost shyly, rolling your shoulders to shift your t-shirt into place.

The smile in his eyes moves to his mouth and for the briefest moment he flashes you a grin which he stifles—like he's feeling a little shy himself.

"Nothing," he mutters before looking back down at whatever file he's working on. "Mixers need restocking."

You don't officially start for another five minutes, so you walk over to him, around to his side of the desk, and perch on the edge of it next to him. "You better get on with it then," you say, and he sits back in his chair with the hint of a smirk on his face, observing you for a long few seconds.

"You pushing your luck now?" he asks, and you tell him you've been doing that for years, and when you playfully nudge your knee against his, he nudges back.

You just sit there looking at him for a while, with him looking back at you, a weird kind of warmth growing in your tummy. And then he suddenly gets up.

"What're you doing?"

He brushes past you entirely too closely; the hairs on your arms stand up as you feel him pass, millimetres from touching you.

"Helping you bring the crates up," he murmurs somewhere near your ear, but you don't know where he is exactly now because your eyes have drifted shut with the shiver ghosting over your skin.

::: :::

Flirting with Brendan is a new experience. You could never do it before, in those early months—he was too far in the closet, paranoid about every look or touch. Whenever he got a little close to you in public back then, it was always with a hint of tension, a dangerous edge.

Now it's just flirting, with nothing or no one to tell you it's inappropriate. You're both single, and you're both out, and it's clear you're both enjoying it more than you probably should.

It goes on for a couple of weeks. You don't think it's conspicuous, and neither of you mentions it out loud, but it feels good—feels safe. Not rushing head-first into anything, but no longer tiptoeing around each other. You have this powerful attraction between you, and you're both acknowledging it, and you go home most nights full of excitement.

::: :::

You have a beer together during a lull in customers that first night, Brendan's fingers brushing yours as he hands you the bottle, and when you bring it to your mouth, you both hold eye contact, that familiar frisson of tension passing between you. His eyes, always intense, are dark whenever he looks at you now—no more attempts to hide what he feels at the sight of you, what your presence does to him. It's a heady feeling, having that kind of power over him, and when you flick your tongue out to catch a stray drop of beer from the mouth of the beer bottle, he watches it, and he swallows, and you smile.

::: :::

He gets into the habit of putting his hand on your hip or the small of your back as he shifts past you behind the bar. The first time he does it, you freeze, the heavy weight of his warm hand burning through your clothes and to your skin. It lasts only a fraction of an instant, but you feel the touch for the rest of the night.

It happens a few times a night now—you've never known him to work the bar so often before—and a couple of days later he does it, a hand on your lower back, and all of a sudden he's chatting to a customer while you're waiting for your customer to get money out of his wallet and that hand stays on you, casual and gentle, a soft pressure against your skin. He's just stood beside you talking to someone with his hand on you like it's perfectly normal—as if you're like any other couple sharing a space.

Only you're not a couple.

Eventually your customer locates his money and you have to move to get to the till but you don't want to. You don't want to break this random moment of extended intimacy.

But even as Brendan's seemingly distracted by the man he's chatting to, he's well aware of you, because he gets it—without breaking his conversation, he slips his hand lower to the very base of your spine and rubs his thumb back and forth a time or two before pulling away and letting you go.

You suck in a much-needed breath as you step away from him.

::: :::

You're up on a ladder hanging the banner for the engagement party that night, tongue caught between your teeth in concentration and some barman whose name you can't remember barking at you to go left, no, right a bit.

"Go and find someone whose eyes actually work," you snap at him and then there's a shift of feet and Brendan's murmur of, "Problem, gentlemen?"

You try to glare over your shoulder at him but it makes you wobble too much and a flash of panic shoots through your chest. You ignore the both of them and focus on getting the damn thing in place and when you think you've got it, you say, "How's that?"

There's a pause, and then: "Looks good to me."

The thickness in the tone makes you bite your lip.

You risk the wobble of the ladder as you look behind you, finding only Brendan there now, the no-name barman having slouched off somewhere. Brendan's eyes are glittering up at you, meeting your gaze first before drifting lower, down the length of you, to the slip of skin visible from your risen t-shirt, cool air whispering across it.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, voice quiet and knowing and a smile pushing onto your face.

"Just enjoying the view," he says, and he follows it with a little wink, making your knees dangerously weak.

::: :::

You've been staring at it for ages, almost mesmerised by it, tilting your head in contemplation.

Brendan clears his throat pointedly, and you look up into his face. You're on either side of the bar, counting change together for the petty cash while the club's quiet. Although you've been too distracted to get much counting done.

"I was just wondering," you say to him, and he raises an eyebrow in expectation, "what size we're calling this?"

You nod at his shirt, at the place you've been staring at for the past few minutes. Where the buttons strain to hold the material together. It makes you a little dizzy.

He smirks softly to himself and puts his change down so he can lean forward, rest his elbows on the bar. It brings him closer to you.

"You got a problem with the way I dress, Steven?"

You swallow. "I didn't say that." If he stands at the right angle, you can see his nipples through the material. "You're a lot bigger now," you add, and you hope he can tell from your tone that you mean it as a good thing.

He stares at you, then he leans forward more, eyes intent, his lips parting to say something and your heart starting to kick up a gear and—

"Hey, hey!"

There are only a few customers in the club but somehow they've managed to get into a drunken fight with each other, and suddenly Brendan's vaulting over the bar and muscling his way into the mayhem and breaking it up and throwing people out and, fuck, you're turned on as hell watching him.

He turns to you when it's all over with his eyes burning with adrenaline, chest heaving, and he must see it all in your face because something that looks startling like pure, raw lust floods into his expression and he balls his hands into tight fists and takes a huge, laboured breath, and then he storms across the bar and to his office and slams the door.

If it wasn't for the distinct sound of the lock clicking into place, you would follow him.

::: :::

Brendan hasn't let you stay late after work since you started working back here. Tells you he's doing his paperwork at home, and you might as well take off.

You're not stupid. He's afraid of being alone with you, afraid of himself and what he might do.

You wish he would, whatever it is.

::: :::

There's a crisis at the restaurant, an exploding pipe and water everywhere and Tony panicking and screeching "You can't leave me with this!" at you as you're attempting to leave for your shift at the club.

You sigh and text Brendan, tell him you can't make it tonight, and you stay to help Tony clear up and assess the damage. By the time you leave, it's nearly three in the morning and you're exhausted and paying no attention to anything, so it's with some surprise that you hear your name as you're walking past the dark and silent club.

Brendan's stood outside, locking up for the night, looking sexy as hell in his worked-fourteen-hours-straight, loose collar and sleeves rolled up way of his.

"Hiya," you say, voice croaky, stopping in the street while he finishes locking the door. "Sorry I never made it in. I've been mopping all night."

"Forget about it." He gives you an assessing once-over, making you feel warm. "You look like hell."

You snort. "Thanks."

Your eyes are itching with tiredness and you rub them, making stars explode in your vision. When you open them, it's to find Brendan looking at you with concern.

"Why don't you come up for a coffee?"

You want to, you really do, mostly because _coffee_ is usually a euphemism and you're more than ready for that. You can't believe you're going to turn him down, and you explain about how it's your turn to get the kids to school in the morning, then get the shopping in before going back to work, and that you really should try to get some sleep now.

He looks disappointed but understanding, and he puts a hand on your shoulder, dips his head to look at you close. "Tell me if I'm burning you out," he says. "I can always get someone else in part time."

"No." You shake your head. "I need the money, don't I?" But it's not the only reason, and you both know it.

His hand moves from your shoulder to the side of your neck, rubs his thumb against the edge of your jaw. "I would offer you full-time at the club so you don't have to work two jobs, but—"

"I like being a chef," you say, and he nods.

"Yeah." He gets it. He gets _you_. You smile at him, and his face softens. "I just wanna look after you, Steven," he murmurs. "Give you the best of everything."

He's talking as though it's his place to give you the best in life. Like it was Doug's place a few weeks ago. A partner's responsibility. A husband's.

He talks like it's a foregone conclusion, you and him and the future. He hasn't even kissed you.

"Can we talk tomorrow?" You're quiet but hopeful, because you're ready for it now. You were ready when you went back to work with him two weeks ago.

He looks vaguely troubled by your request, but he says, "Yeah. Okay," and you take it as a good thing, a sign of possible progress.

::: :::

You get your payslip in your email inbox the next day, and you immediately notice something different about it. Something that should make you happy, but instead it irritates you enough to have you risk being late for work at the restaurant. You're going to the club to confront Brendan about this little change.

"You've given me a payrise," you say as you barge into his office without knocking.

He looks up in surprise, fingers poised above his laptop's keyboard. "Yeah."

"Why?"

You don't like it. It feels _wrong_ somehow, like it's favouritism, him treating you differently to the rest of the staff—or worse, like it's impersonal. Like you're _just_ a member of staff.

He considers you for a long moment, before slowly closing his laptop. "Never properly thanked you," he says eventually, looking inexplicably uncomfortable. "For your help after my dad died."

You let that sink in, and then say with a huff of exasperation, "I don't want your money, Brendan."

His response is immediate, and with all the confusion of a man who doesn't quite know what he's doing: "How else am I supposed to thank you?"

You don't answer him. You're too incredulous.

"What _do_ you want then?" Brendan tries, brow furrowed, and you could almost laugh.

"You already said thank you," you say bluntly, then you let some of the tension ease out of you, choosing instead to explain. "You don't need a grand gesture every time I do something for you. Doing things for each other—it comes with the territory, Brendan."

Now it's you—you're the one talking as though you're already together. And you wonder if he'll freak out, if hearing it coming from you will make him realise how deep into this he already he is.

But he just nods in understanding, and tells you you're keeping the payrise anyway.

It feels like a step forward. A step closer.

::: :::

He comes up behind you that night while you're wiping the bar down, presses in close and makes your whole body go stiff. You've been waiting to see him since you got here, waiting for that promised conversation. Now he's here, pressing against you, making all your senses zero in on him.

"Thing is, Steven," he murmurs into your ear, breath warm on the side of your face. You can feel all of him against the back of you, from his chest to his hips. "I keep thinking of reasons for why this is a bad idea."

You lick your lips, answer him in a tone too quiet for anyone else to overhear. You decide against pretending you don't know what he's talking about. "You waiting for me to convince you to be with me? Because that's not gonna happen."

"I know," he says, and there's a dip of his face, his nose brushing against your temple, "that's not what I'm saying."

Your heart's thudding against your ribcage. "So what _are_ you saying?"

His hand goes to your waist, down to your hip, his touch like a searing brand. "I keep thinking of reasons for why this is a bad idea," he repeats, "but they don't seem to matter to me anymore." He pauses, and then: "I still want it. You." His fingertips dip below the hem of your t-shirt, press against bare skin flushed with heat. "I still want you."

You can't help the smile of pure happiness that bursts onto your face, and you turn in his arms to face him, see his eyes glittering. "So what next then?"

He returns a soft smile of his own, lifts a hand to your face. His gaze flicks to your mouth and you lick your lips, wait with your breath caught in your throat as he leans in an inch or two.

Then he stops suddenly, pulls his head back and traces his thumb across your cheekbone. "Let's get dinner?"

You blink at him. "Are you serious? You were about to kiss me." You can't believe he didn't, managed to stop himself at the last moment. An irrational part of you is mildly affronted.

"I'm gonna treat you right, for once," he says, his smile still soft. "Show you I mean it."

"Mean what?"

"This." He tugs on your hip to pull you closer together and you suck in a breath at the suddenness of it. "You and me."

"Out in the open?" You're teasing a little, feel delirious with it, with all of this. That you're finally getting somewhere, and Brendan's not hiding from it—from you, from his feelings. It's making you feel as though your heart's going to burst out of your chest.

"Yeah," he says, with unguarded honesty and confidence. "And no messing about." You gaze at each other, and for a moment you think he's going to try for a kiss again, then there are footsteps coming up the stairs, an interruption, and it's you pushing him away. He doesn't look as though he cares about being seen at all.

"I spoke to the boss," he mutters to you as you turn to pick up your cloth again, continue wiping down the bar. "He said you can have tomorrow night off."

You laugh. "Nice of him."

"I'll pick you up at eight," he says, and pinches your backside before leaving you to your work.

::: :::

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

You're halfway through getting ready for your date with Brendan when Doug decides to visit. He couldn't have chosen a worse moment.

You let him into the hall, giving him an awkward smile, and he tells you he's here to pick up some things he left. "Just some documents for my visa," he tells you. "They're in the second drawer of my bedside—I mean—"

"Yeah, I know what you mean, Doug." You go to find the documents, feeling a pang of guilt, but he's put you on edge with his timing—Brendan's going to be here at any moment and you're stood in your house with your husband.

"You look nice," Doug mutters after you've given him what he came for. "Going somewhere?"

You rub the back of your neck—don't want to lie to him, but no way can you tell him the truth either. "Doug…"

His sad smile tells you he knows anyway. "I'll just…" He motions towards the front door, and you shift past him to open it.

"I'm sorry, you know," you blurt as he heads out. You're compelled to say something, can't let him go without him knowing that you're not taking this lightly. You were serious about your marriage, and you feel the weight of destroying it.

He stops outside the door and turns to you, moonlight highlighting the blond in his hair, and you add, "I never should've let it get that far."

He gives a bitter laugh. "You and Brendan?"

"No," you say, then you swallow dryly. "You and me."

If you were even half a decent man, you never would've let him marry you.

You've surprised him with your words, and you've hurt him. You can see the way it fractures across his face.

"I'm sorry," you say, whisper almost, and the dryness in your throat swells to a lump of emotion.

It's such terrible timing.

Especially when, as you and Doug are stood looking at each other, Brendan strolls up the path.

You're not even ready to go yet.

Brendan stops beside Doug, assesses you both, his expression completely void of anything at all. Doug clears his throat, looks at the ground then up at Brendan, gives a tight smile. "Brendan."

"Douglas."

"Thanks for these," Doug says to you, indicating the documents in his hand, then in the blink of an eye he's up the path and gone.

Brendan raises an eyebrow at you.

"He just needed some stuff he left here," you explain with a sigh, then you turn and head back inside without waiting for a response.

::: :::

"It's not like he's suddenly not my husband anymore," you say.

It's the first words spoken since you left Brendan on the doorstep. He's followed you in now, and he's stood in the doorway of your bedroom, leaning against the frame, watching you button up your cuffs and splash on aftershave and check your hair.

"I didn't say anything about it, Steven."

You look away from the mirror and into his eyes. "I know. I just… You know it's over. For good." You attempt a smile. "You've got nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worried."

He sounds arrogant, but you can see beneath the façade.

"Good," you say, before going back to smoothing your hair into place. "It's just—we're married. It's gonna take a while before things are completely…separated. But that doesn't mean me and him will ever—"

You're interrupted by Brendan pushing away from the doorframe and approaching you. He stops in front of the mirror, blocking your view of it, and gives you a soft look before tugging your shirt collar straight. "I don't want to talk about your marriage tonight," he murmurs, hands drifting down your arms to your waist. "I just want it to be me and you." You can hear the unspoken _finally_ on the end of his sentence.

You smile, and you risk touching him—put your hands flat on his chest and drag them up until you have your fingers linked behind his neck, making his head bow slightly towards you. "I like that plan."

His returning smile is bright and open. This is already the best date you've ever had.

"Oh, and Steven," he adds after you break apart and you head out into the hall. You glance back at him expectantly, catch the expression of mischief on his face. "If you need money to get those divorce proceedings rolling quicker, whatever the cost—"

"Shut up," you laugh, flicking the hall light off and leaving him stood in the dark. He catches you around the waist a moment later, pulls you back against his chest before you've even finished gasping in surprise. There's something tantalisingly erotic about this, stood in the dark with Brendan wrapped around you.

"I mean it," he mutters into your ear, his voice rumbling through his chest behind you, and he follows it up with a ticklish poke in your ribs that makes you squirm away, barking out a laugh that echoes in the silent darkness of this hallway.

::: :::

You get a cab, which surprises you. You thought Brendan would drive. But then you get it—if Brendan's half as nervous about this as you are, then he's going to need a drink or two, and you won't begrudge him it.

Sitting in the back of the taxi together is awkward in a way that makes you want to laugh. It's not that it's a funny situation; it's just surreal. You and Brendan are in this taxi together because you're going somewhere together—and not just anywhere, but to a restaurant, because this is a _date_. Brendan's taking you out with a view to building a relationship with you and the whole thing, everything about it, is making you giddy.

He notices your attempt at stifling your smile and asks you what's so funny, so you tell him—that you can't believe this is happening, that you never thought in a million years—

"It's not the first time I've taken you to dinner, Steven."

And he's right, it's not. But there's no need to bring up those kinds of memories so you change the subject, ask what made him decide to go through with it now.

He shrugs in response. "Just couldn't stand it anymore, seeing you every day without…" His eyes catch on the rear view mirror, at the cabbie looking back at you both, and he clears his throat.

You don't push it, but you let yourself smile.

::: :::

It's a restaurant on Chester's high street, offering traditional Asian cuisine, and it's packed wall to wall. You're made to wait for fifteen minutes at the bar despite the reservation Brendan's made, and you pass the time with a beer and quietly making fun of some of the diners. Your heads are bent together as you talk, private and intimate, and you put your hand on Brendan's knee to balance yourself on the stool. Brendan gulps down his beer in minutes.

You're finally given a table in the corner at the back and as you sit and get comfortable, you watch Brendan for signs—discomfort, panic, any kind of freaking out. But he looks relaxed and happy with one beer already in him and he doesn't even bat an eye when the waiter lights the candle between you, implying romance without your request.

Between the two of you, you order a little of most things, opting to spread it all out on the table and share. You withstand Brendan's teasing at your inability to use chopsticks and smile gratefully when he hands you a fork, and you have a mini fork vs. chopsticks battle when you both go for the same piece of crispy chicken. He lets you win and watches you put it in your mouth, and you throw him a bit of a pleasurable moan as you chew, just to watch his eyes light up and then darken.

You end up with sticky sweet and sour sauce all over your fingers after devouring a few prawn balls and you're halfway through licking yourself clean when you notice you've got Brendan's complete undivided attention. You make a show of it, slowing down to drag your tongue along your fingers obscenely, sucking them into your mouth and letting your lashes flutter as you hold eye contact.

"Stop it," he says with quiet amusement, nudging his knee against yours beneath the table and holding it there.

You're four glasses of wine in by the time it comes to dessert and feeling a little squiffy for it. You can't help the intermittent giggling or the warmth in your cheeks, especially when Brendan leans in to talk to you or brushes against your hand on the table or smirks in that way that says he knows you're fucked already and he likes it.

Maybe he's planning on taking advantage of you.

God, you really hope so.

Brendan pays; of course he does. You don't even get chance to object—he's stealthy with it, takes care of it all while you're in the bathroom. You chastise him for it mildly as you're putting your jacket back on but he shuts you up by stuffing an after-dinner chocolate into your mouth and giving you an instant to brush the tip of your tongue against his fingers.

You both stop breathing for a moment.

The cool air outside the restaurant serves to sober you up somewhat and you walk leisurely down the high street, talking softly about not much at all. There's a new bar opened at the other of the street, Brendan says, and he wants to try it out. You're nowhere near ready to call it a night, so you happily go along with the plan.

You're in the process of nattering on about Leah's school play next week—"…and we've gotta make her this tree costume, right, and I keep telling Amy to just buy her one but…"—when Brendan suddenly catches your hand in his and your words freeze in your throat.

You almost stumble over your feet in your surprise and you open your mouth to blurt out god knows what when Brendan, eyes diligently focused on the street ahead and cheeks slightly red, says, "Don't make a big deal out of it."

He's got to be having a laugh. He can't just hold your hand like it's the most casual thing in the world, not here out in the open, on a busy high street, the kind of place where Brendan would usually project his straightest-man-in-the-world persona. "But—"

"Leah's costume," he says, readjusting his hand so he can link your fingers. "You were saying…"

You grin, can't help it, and catch the slight curve of his lips in return. And then you carry on talking about the school play, and you carry on walking down the street towards this bar, and you hold Brendan's hand all the way there, squeezing every now and then to let him know you're affected.

::: :::

It's a gay bar.

"Now you're just showing off," you say with a laugh, talking loudly over the music, and his smirk says it all.

Brendan Brady's out of the closet, and he wants you to know it.

He gets cocktails, something red and fruity, laughing as you cringe at the taste of yours and then he gets you a beer. You stay by the bar, pressed close, his arm on the bar behind you and you leaning slightly into his chest as you observe the people on the dance floor.

At one point he asks if you want to dance, but you can tell the thought of it doesn't give him much pleasure, so you decline. This isn't like the last time you were at a gay bar together; he doesn't have to put on a show for you.

He excuses himself to the bathroom later in the evening and you're almost immediately hit on by an older man with more muscles than hair and stunning blue eyes that leave you a little speechless.

"Can't, sorry," you say to him. "I'm here with someone."

"I don't see anyone," he retorts, before grabbing your hand and trying to pull you away from the bar. "Come on, just one dance. Pretty boy like you—"

"Hey," says a growl in your ear, then the guy's being shoved away and Brendan's stood between you both. "He said he's with someone."

"Listen, mate—"

You can't see Brendan's face, but whatever expression he's giving is enough for the man's eyes to widen and for him to back away. Brendan turns to you after, face smoothing out and eyes softening, and you smile at him.

"You wanna go?"

He nods and you finish your drink and then he takes your hand to lead you out. You want to thank him—for getting rid of the guy, for taking you out, for giving you one of the best dates you've ever had. But you don't, because your blood's thrumming with heat, enough to distract you from any well-meaning words.

Whenever Brendan demonstrates his power, his masculinity, that edge of pure _man_ and strength and danger—it never fails to turn you on, especially when he's doing it for you. It's not supposed to. You're not some damsel in distress. But Brendan Brady is the reason you're ruined for other men and you want it. You need it.

"What d'you wanna do—"

You're outside the club and it's cold and it's loud and you're a bit too drunk, but you stop him with your hands on his chest, fingers twisting in the material of his shirt, and you look up into his face.

"Let's go back to yours," you breathe. "Please."

He blinks at you, and his hands slip under your jacket and around to the small of your back as if he's unaware of it—pulling you tighter together, pushing you up against this wall of muscle and strength and _man_. And this man knows how to take care of you, in a way you've been achingly missing all these months without him. Brendan knows how to give you exactly what you need.

"Steven—" His eyes are blown through, all pupil and heavy on you.

"Please," you say again, licking your lips and tugging on his shirt and needing him, desperation crawling under your skin.

It takes him a moment to respond. When he does, his voice is strained. "I don't—I'm not looking to rush you."

You push up on tiptoes, chest dragging against his as you get your hands on his face, holding him tighter than you mean to, your fingers pressing white marks into his jaw. "Brendan—it's been so long—"

You need him to understand. It's not just about drunken sex. It's something you crave, so badly your skin burns with it—something only he can give you, and you don't want to wait any longer.

You need him inside you, and you need him to make you fall apart around him, and you need him to say yes.

He doesn't say yes, but he does wrench himself away from you and grab your hand and half-drag you down the street and throw you into a cab, and that's even better.

::: :::

TBC

I'M SORRY. I promise the next one really is the last one.


	8. Chapter 8

**The end of this quick little fic. Sorry it took so long to give this final bit! I really should've written it on the end of the last chapter as this doesn't really constitute a whole chapter, but never mind!**

::: :::

The first thing he does is offer you a drink.

It's not what you were expecting. You thought you'd come through this front door tearing off each other's clothes, desperate to finally get what you both want. But Brendan went quiet in the taxi, and quiet up the steps, and he gave you a distracted sort of smile as he opened the door and let you in and led you to the kitchen.

You'd be worried he's gone off the idea, if you didn't know him so well.

But you know what this is, and when you take the proffered bottle of beer from his hand, you close your fingers over his and you say, softly and without accusation, "Are you nervous?"

"No," he responds instantly. You search his eyes, waiting, and his face breaks into a self-deprecating smile. "Maybe."

It's a disarming moment of honesty from a man who's always so guarded and cryptic and closed off, from a man who lets nobody in. But he's let you in. He's let you get closer than anyone else in his life and it's a shocking amount of responsibility, you think, looking into his eyes. It's the weight of everything Brendan Brady is, sitting vulnerable in the palm of your hand.

And he cares so much that the idea of taking you to bed now, of getting it wrong, is scaring him. You know that because you know him, better than you know yourself. Because you've given this man more focus in your life than anything that's ever come close, even when he should've been the last thing on your mind.

It's up to you now, to get you both past this barrier.

You put your bottle on the counter and you stand before him and you let him look at you for a moment, then you step forward and bring your hands to his chest. Slowly, carefully, you open a button on his shirt. His chest rises beneath your hands, a sharp drawn-in breath, then another when you take the next button and your hands are shaking suddenly, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your system as the top of his shirt parts open and you see his skin, hair, muscle—all of it for you tonight, for you to touch and taste.

"Wait," he says, closing his hands over yours and stopping you. "Wait, let me just—"

You swallow and look up at him and you can see an instant of hesitation before he takes your face in his hands and gazes at you, eyes soft and warm and full of you. Then you're holding your breath and gripping handfuls of his shirt as he steps in close and kisses you. _Finally_.

It's the gentlest kiss he's ever given you. It's a tender cling of lips, a prolonged moment of nothing and everything. It's your first kiss in this new chapter and it tastes like home.

"This is—" he says as the kiss breaks and he leans his forehead against yours, eyes closed. There's a hitch to his voice that makes your stomach flip over.

"Yeah. It'll be even better when we get our clothes off."

His eyes shoot open at that, a hint of surprise on his face, then he's flashing you a grin and pulling you in for another kiss and this one is better; you can feel his confidence now and the promise of what's to come and it's like a continuation of that moment outside the club, where you begged him to take you home and fuck you. Whatever self-doubt he carried between then and now brushes away with the sweep of his tongue against yours and when you pull away enough to ask him to take you to bed, there's a growl in his throat that says you better be ready.

::: :::

It's rough; it's the heightened edge of desperation. He's consuming you, here on this bed, the both of you naked and sweating and panting harsh breaths through the kiss and bite of built-up desire. He's everywhere at once, clawing at your skin and stretching you open on his fingers and trailing teeth across collarbone and throat, your name on his lips and and the plunge of his tongue in your mouth.

He rolls on a condom, looks almost angry with it. "We're gonna get tested," he says, hisses, as he lines up and pushes in and you dig nails into his shoulder, the hot spark of pleasure riding your spine. "We're gonna lose the condoms."

You agree. God, you agree.

You're lost for a moment in the feel of it, of the size and pressure of him filling you. It's been so long, and his mind zeroes in on the same thing because he buries in deep and pauses and gets a hand on your face to make you look at him and breathes, "Has he ever—"

"No," you whisper, arching your back as you feel him throb inside you. "No one else has since you."

It's enough for him, and he drags you into a fierce kiss and he thrusts, and he fucks you, and he's not gentle but that's what you need and you're crying out already, so overwhelmed by sensation and love and your long-held craving for this man. He's fucking you like it's an obsession, a primal obsession buried deep in his bones and making him mindless and you take everything he gives you, spread your legs wider and thrust up to meet him and swallow his groans when he licks into your mouth, all teeth and tongue and desperation.

"I love you," he says after, holding you close and tight and shaken. "I love you."

You believe him, and you say it back, and when you shift enough to kiss under his jaw, you can feel his heart pounding for you.

::: :::

You wake up in the night and you turn to look at him, only to find him awake and already looking at you, his eyes the softest you've ever seen them. You kiss him and he rolls on top of you and when you put your hands on his shoulders and push him down, he goes, willingly and without question, giving you everything you ask for.

You taste yourself on his tongue when he comes back up and you linger in the kiss as he pushes fingers inside you and up and hits that spot that makes you gasp and arch up into him. You're oversensitised from the blowjob but he doesn't give you rest and he wrings another orgasm from you before he goes in with his cock, takes his time, a languidly sensual rhythm as he relearns your body and tastes inches of your skin and looks into your eyes between deep, all-consuming kisses.

Only with this man have you ever felt like your bones and muscles and everything within you could melt and leave you as nothing but a puddle of heat and pure satisfaction.

You've had sex with other men. You've had sex with women. You've had sex with your husband. But this isn't sex. This isn't the pursuit of orgasm and distraction.

This is Brendan, and this is everything.

::: :::

"It can't be like it was before," you tell him, sitting across from him at the table, sharing a plate of toast. "I'm not going back in the shadows."

He brushes crumbs off his moustache and swallows his mouthful, looks at you as if you've gone mad. "Have I not proven to you that I'm past all that?"

He's gone above and beyond anything you could've hoped for, anything you ever expected, and it's like you're in a dream now, floating on happiness and hope. But you've been in this state before, full of his promise, had it all torn away from you in the space of a heartbeat. And while you know this is different, that you're sat here looking at a changed man, there's still that little niggle, the need to know, one last time, that you've done the right thing.

"Steven." He's seen it on your face, that hint of doubt, and he looks hurt by it. "If there's any part of you that doesn't—"

"No," you say. "It's not that. I just—" You're blushing before the words leave your mouth, face heating under the weight of your vulnerability. "This is all I've ever wanted and I can't—you can't give it to me and then take it away if you're not—"

"Steven," he says again, and then he's reaching across the table to take your hand, a gesture so unfamiliar yet thrilling. He clears his throat, looks as though he's fighting with the words he wants to say. "You and me, we're—this is my future. _Our_ future." There's a red hue to his cheeks now as well, but he's looking you in the eye resolutely, wants you to see the honesty in his words. "I plan on marrying you one day."

Your husband's face flashes into your mind for an instant, washed away almost instantly by the swell of emotion flooding your veins. You can't help but grin.

"Really?"

"Really." He's giving you a soft little smile, and it won't be easy, you know that—Amy won't accept this overnight, and you're still married to another man, and this man you're in love with now—always been in love with, since the very beginning—has his own demons and skeletons threatening to come between you if he lets them.

But you're ready to fight, ready to work hard to give you what you both deserve, after all this time.

"I never thought I'd get a happy ending," he continues, a gruffness to his tone. "I'm gonna do everything I can to keep hold of it."

Your heart is swelling so much, it's a wonder you can still breathe. "It's not a happy ending," you tell him, and before he can take that the wrong way, you lean across the table and grip his collar and pull him close and say, "It's just the start," and then he's rolling his eyes and smiling into the kiss.

::: :::

**Thanks for reading. :)**


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